


beauty; affection

by orphan_account



Category: Fushigi Yuugi
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Pre-Canon, Suzaku Hi Den
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 07:26:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17862962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He grew his hair because Mother told him to.





	beauty; affection

He grew his hair because Mother told him to.

Mother loved it that way, loved the way his silky tresses fell across his shoulders, loved the way they felt when she stroked it lovingly every night, humming in contentment as she did.

“You are very beautiful.”

“You make Mother proud.”

“You are a very good boy.”

In hindsight, he supposed, his love of beauty came from Mother. He did not remember Father much, after all.

(“He did not love either of us.”)

Things did not change much when he ascended the Vermillion Throne. Two months shy of his fourteenth birthday, he was nothing but a boy - a beautiful boy blessed by Suzaku, with sparkling golden eyes and high hopes for his country’s future. And every night, Mother would lay his weary head on her lap, stroking her thin fingers through his hair.

“Your Majesty’s beauty is peerless.”

“Your Majesty’s wisdom is unparalleled.”

“Your Majesty is very blessed.”

Blessed, indeed, he thought, while he watched his brothers drop dead one by one at his feet.

(In hindsight, he was lucky those fingers have not dared circle themselves around his neck.)

One winter morning, two months shy of his seventeenth birthday, he received summons from Mother. She was getting weaker every day, and he was afraid - very afraid.

“Mother, please don’t leave me.”

“Mother, I need you.”

“Mother, I—”

(He couldn’t bring himself to say it. Mother never liked it when he did.)

He knelt beside Mother’s bed, his shaking hands holding her gaunt ones. Oh, those thin, wrinkled fingers — how they used to shine as they caressed him good night!

Mother reached up to stroke his head, knocking his crown to the ground. A gasp — “Sacrilege,” the minister exclaimed, as the Royal Locks fell disheveled on his shoulders. A sharp breath — and his world fell apart.

Firewood burned every night that summer, yet he remained cold as ice, always reliving how they silently disentangled Mother’s dead hands from his grief-stricken form, those cold fingers from his tear-stained tresses.

He never cut his hair afterward. Yet, no matter how long it grew, he still felt bare, empty, ugly.

In hindsight, he supposed, he only learned to love himself because there was no one else left to love him.

(“Mother loves you.”

He wished Mother had told him that.)

This, he supposed, must be what loneliness felt like.


End file.
